Obama arrived in the Sahara fresh and exuberant. A shaman talking in a manner of clicks and whistles approached him and shook his hand. Obama didn’t hesitate to squeeze his hand. He could see women with baskets on their heads and bare breasts. This pleased him.

“Where’s my white horse, 18 hands tall just like I asked” he inquired after taking in the scenery.

“I must admit that I was wrong. I must be the greater man here.” he thought.

“I was wrong,” he said aloud. “But I still want my horse.”

He felt like he was going to die in the hot sun, but knew that he could survive any amount of dehydration because he was the President now. Finally the great white beast galloped up to them and once again he could feel endorphins in his brain.

Obama reached out to stroke its long nose, admiring the albino-like, mystical quality of its fur and the dark wells. Suddenly it recoiled in fear and shock.

But the Libyan, try as he might, could not stop the horse from running in circles. It was beginning to attract the attention of lions and this filled him with fear.

The horse sensed this and made an effort to calm down and headed toward Obama as if to apologize. When he was about five paces away, he looked over his left shoulder as if his dead mother had called his name and then fell over.

“I’m sorry sir. It’s neck is broken” the Libyan said in a soft voice.

Obama bent down a picked up a handful of sand, holding it close to his nose, trying to rememebr the smell of the earth to bless the horse he had known for so little time.